


partridges and pipers

by apocalyptically



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6009160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalyptically/pseuds/apocalyptically
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your boyfriend had an unconventional job, and apparently it involved birds this holiday season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	partridges and pipers

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I’m posting this on the wrong holiday but fluffy fic is always in season! I’d hoped to finish this before Christmas, but sadly that didn’t happen because I was working on my PhD in Procrastination, so here we are. Hope someone out there enjoys this even though it’s the first honest-to-goodness piece of fanfiction I’ve written in years (and it’s also in the second person, which I’ve never tried before). What can I say, James Wesley makes me want to write fanfic again!

**_i. partridge_ **

 

“I would like to purchase a partridge,” said James. “Twelve, to be precise.”

 

Unsurprisingly, he was on a business call during what was supposed to be a coffee date – well, a scheduled coffee break he entered in his calendar at your insistence. You looked at him over your cup of peppermint mocha, unsure if you misheard him over the Christmas music playing at a just-shy-of-irritating level of jollity. “Partridge?” you mouthed. He grimaced into his phone, and you patted his arm in sympathy. Your boyfriend had an unconventional job, and apparently it involved birds today.

 

After he confirmed a viewing appointment (throughout this you pulled quizzical faces at him and scribbled “Was this on my wishlist?” on a napkin), ended the call, and apologized for interrupting your time together, you leaned forward across the table. “That sounded like fun.”

 

“I’ve discovered in the course of our relationship that we don’t always have the same definition of fun.” James was still frowning at his phone, scrolling quickly through his endless emails.

 

“Yes, mine’s better,” you said cheerfully, and smiled when that got him to raise an eyebrow at you. “So what’s Boss Man got for you to do? Is it painfully festive?”

 

“Very much so,” said James with a sigh, sliding his phone inside his suit jacket. “My em– Mr. Fisk has decided to play the role of the true love in the song, and shower some deserving charity with the cumulative amount of all the gifts. It’s all very last minute, but he wishes to have a symbolic presentation, some sort of pageantry for the sake of publicity, so we’ll have to hire a producer and performers...”

 

“Here’s to the twelve days of Christmas!” You raised your drink, and sipped thoughtfully. “Oh, wow. So that’s, what, twenty-four turtledoves –”

 

“Twenty-two. I’ll need to find out how many animal handlers are required. And consult a lawyer to ensure we don’t violate any bylaws with our bread and circuses.” James pulled out his phone again. “Or we’ll just have to include a few understanding judges on the guest list.”

 

“Hey,” you said, reaching over and touching his hand. “You’ve got this. Start with the partridges and don’t forget the pear trees. Delegate the rest.”

 

“I tried to delegate the pear trees,” he explained. “Leland said that he knew somebody who owned a fruit tree nursery. But evidently I have to do everything myself, because now it appears they don’t have a dozen trees in stock. Maybe Stark Industries boarded the Christmas Price Index train ahead of us.” He sighed again, adjusting his glasses in frustration, and unfolded himself from his seat. “I’m sorry, my love. I have to deal with this. I know it’s the holiday season –”

 

“But Mr. Fisk is depending on you to shepherd this project to success without an outbreak of avian flu.” James allowed you to pull him down for a brief kiss, and you knew his concession to this public display of affection meant he really was sorry. “Good luck. Try to be festive.”

 

His mouth quirked, and you smiled and waved.   

 

 

**_ii. turtledove_ **

 

You didn’t hear his voice as often as you would like. James preferred to text you, but you decided to call him that night. “Are you home?” you asked, absent-mindedly browsing your bookshelf for something warm and fuzzy to read before bed.

 

“At long last. I am happily ensconced in feather-free paperwork. You know, this whole endeavour has given me a new awareness of the excessive number of bird suppliers and pet stores in this city.”

 

You suppressed a giggle, picturing the expressions on people’s faces as James asked for the proprietor of the establishment and outlined his requests in his genial and unnervingly polite manner. “As long as you found your perfect partridges and doves. Did you have dinner yet?”

 

“I’ll make do. I haven’t forgotten,” he said, anticipating your reaction, “about your new year’s resolution.” He injected a hint of doubt into the words, even though technically it was _his_ new year’s resolution, and anyway, there shouldn’t be any doubts about eating regular healthy meals.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll remind you as soon as the clock strikes midnight.”

 

“I’ll be up for a bit for an overseas call tonight,” he went on. “Just waiting for the sun to rise in France, as there’s a farm with a particular breed of Faverolles chickens–”

 

This time you couldn’t help it and a snicker escaped. “Really? Actual French hens?”

 

“I strive for accuracy,” said James primly.

 

“Nobody will be able to tell the difference. Unless the chickens will be served after the show?”

 

“That’s not in the plan, but authenticity isn’t just a matter of taste buds.” He sounded indignant.

 

“Said the wine connoisseur, so it must be true.” You ran your fingers over the book spines. “But now I have a craving for chicken. Any chance we could have lunch tomorrow?”

 

“I’m afraid not, darling. More hatcheries need visiting, and after that the event venue needs inspecting.” He sighed.

 

You wanted to tell him to delegate again, but you knew what his reply would be. When his boss tasked him with something, James needed to see it through personally… which fell under his duties as a personal assistant, you supposed, but that was oversimplifying his job description. “Would you like to read to me?” you said instead.

 

You imagined him leaning back in his leather chair. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, voice soft and slightly amused.

 

“Got any bedtime stories on your bookshelf?”

 

“Ah, no. My collection only functions to impress you when you come over, not necessarily to send you into sweet slumber.” A pause, during which you assumed he got up from behind his desk and perused his books. “Unless… shall I read _War and Peace_?”

 

“Do you have a phone book instead?” you teased, padding over to your bed and wrapping a blanket around yourself. The sound of his chuckle warmed you.

 

“Actually, I believe I have just the thing,” he said. “Give me a minute.” He hummed quietly over the rustle and shuffle of pages. “I remember that it was… ah, yes, here it is. It’s quite thematic. I think you’ll like it.”

 

“Let the bird of loudest lay,” he read. “On the sole Arabian tree, herald sad and trumpet be, to whose sound chaste wings obey.”

 

You settled back against your pillows and smiled to yourself as you listened to the melody of his measured voice.   

 

_Hearts remote, yet not asunder;_

_Distance, and no space was seen_

_'Twixt the turtle and his queen:_

_But in them it were a wonder._

_So between them love did shine,_

_That the turtle saw his right_

_Flaming in the phoenix’ sight;_

_Either was the other's mine._

 

 

**_iii. hen_ **

 

The next day, Francis delivered a basket to your door. You had slept in, dreaming of tinsel and holiday lights, and spent a lazy afternoon lounging on the couch, multitasking by catching up on TV shows while online shopping and scrawling last-minute well wishes into greeting cards. It was an unexpected surprise when Francis (whom you liked, but he never seemed to understand your jokes, or at least didn’t realize he had permission to laugh at them) showed up, put the basket down and lifted an embroidered cloth to reveal a covered stoneware dish and a slim bottle of wine. Then he lifted the lid for the second reveal: a roasted Cornish hen sitting on a bed of fragrant rice and vegetables.

 

“Compliments of Mr. Wesley,” Francis said helpfully.

 

“Shouldn’t you be with him?” you said. You bent down and inhaled the scent of lemon and thyme, noticing a rolled sheet of creamy stationery tucked in a separate compartment with utensils.

 

“He wanted to make sure you received the delivery. And to convey his deep regret that he couldn’t share this meal with you.” Francis sounded like he was reciting lines, and it wouldn’t shock you to find out that James did make his subordinates rehearse things all the time. “But… I guess I’ll head back now. Does the message require a response?”

 

You untied the red ribbon and saw your name in James’ impeccable penmanship. _Does this satisfy your craving for chicken?_

 

Yes, but now you had a different sort of craving. You wouldn’t ask Francis to relay that message, though.

 

  
**_iv. calling bird_**

 

Your call went to voicemail, which meant James was with his boss, or in a meeting, or with his boss in a meeting. You sent him a text: _Thanks for the surprise! But when are we actually having dinner together?_

 

No sooner had you put down your phone than it buzzed. _You’re welcome._ And then: _Shall I pencil you in for next year?_

 

It was commendable how James even managed to sound like an infuriating asshole in text message format. He was a sarcastic workaholic bastard and you loved him in spite (or, you supposed, because) of it. Biting your lip, you typed: _Not too late to modify resolution! Have regular healthy meals, share them with me._

 

His reply was swift. _Only if you share your unhealthy cravings._

 

You wrote back: _CHEETOS4EVAH._ You could be infuriating too. _P.S. How’s life in the aviary?_

 

_Currently listening to professors of folklore discuss canaries vs blackbirds._

 

_Festive! Research for program notes?_

 

_Adds authenticity._

 

_Hope you wore tweed for the occasion. See you soon?_

 

_I promise._

 

 

**_v. golden ring_ **

 

He always kept his promises, and so he did see you soon, but it was during another pre-booked coffee date – not quite the setting you had hoped.

 

“I was not there to haggle,” James was saying, his eyebrows expressing his dissatisfaction. “There was a drop in gold commodity prices this year, but it didn’t affect jewelry overmuch, and Mr. Fisk had already established that we were going with the fourteen carat. He had some design suggestions – well, most of his input was deferring to Vanessa – and that was where more difficulties arose, because the associate I was dealing with was clearly incompetent.”

 

“Generally speaking, you think everybody is incompetent,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder. “But this verse is fun! I thought you’d enjoy yourself more at the jeweller’s than the pet store.”

 

“I didn’t account for such staggering levels of incompetence. Or the curiosity one creates when requesting forty identical rings.”

 

You started to laugh. “Why didn’t you charm them with a story? You’re planning a scavenger hunt proposal and you need thirty-nine extra rings as fail-safes, in case your girlfriend misinterprets a clue.”

 

He pursed his lips and regarded you with sudden intensity. “Would you do that?”

 

You met his gaze, inscrutable behind the frames of his glasses. “What, make up a story?”

 

“Misinterpret a clue.”

 

Your heartbeat quickened, but you kept your reply casual. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on how incompetent you think I am.”

 

He gave you a slow smirk that made you want to smack him.

  


**_vi. goose_ **

 

James returned from his field trip to a waterfowl farm in a foul mood. You shared this observation with him, delivering the pun with a straight face, and he gave you a sour look. He had goose droppings on his shoes.

 

  

**_vii. swan_ **

 

When he had to go out of town to track down an elusive swan breeder, you tried to convince him to bring you along, since it wasn’t a business-as-usual trip.

 

James lowered his head and removed his glasses, his movements brief and controlled. Then he subdued all the arguments you had thought to use with a simple combination of direct eye contact and saying your name. “When we travel together, it will be for a proper holiday. We are not going to a bird farm on our first vacation.”

 

“I don’t know, could be festive,” you said, crossing your arms.

 

“Christmas market in Cologne, that’s festive. Fireworks over the Darling and Victoria harbours. A cruise ship under the northern lights.”

 

You moved closer to him. “You would go to the Arctic with me?”

 

“I would go anywhere with you,” he said, holding your gaze. “So please choose the destination wisely, for my sake.”

 

As a gesture of apology, he got you tickets to _Swan Lake_ (in addition to reserving a block of seats for any family or friends you wished to invite) before he left. When he arrived at the farm he sent you a picture of two swans side by side in a pond. It was an unexceptional shot, but you had the photo printed and put it on your fridge. There were no photos of the two of you together, something you needed to rectify when you finally went on that vacation.

 

 

**_viii. maid_ **

 

James was usually very discreet about his work, but this holiday project was unusual, to say the least. It wasn’t as if you got to overhear any corporate secrets, though. Most likely because he made sure he only held ridiculous conversations within your earshot.

 

“Sir, I’m not entirely sure about the eighth verse. Are you more inclined towards the cleaning company or the dairy farm route?”

 

In the end, he resolved the maid situation by hiring an interpretive dance troupe and instructing the show’s director to find a tasteful way to represent milking cows without actually bringing cows onstage. (This creative decision segued into the recruitment of a ballet company for the next two verses.)

  


**_ix. lady_ **

 

“I wish I knew what Vanessa’s going to wear,” you said over coffee, a week before the event.

 

James arched a brow at you. “Do you want to coordinate outfits with her?”

 

“I need inspiration and she’s my style icon. Can you please find out for me?”

 

He sighed. “It would be presumptuous if I were to broach the subject. You can go to the gallery and ask her yourself. She likes you.”

 

“What use are you if you can’t give me Vanessa’s fashion secrets?” You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Why am I even dating you?”

 

He cocked his head and smiled his insufferable smile. “You know why.”

 

Before you could come up with a suitably sultry response, his phone buzzed and you stifled a groan. “Sir?” He listened, glancing at his watch, and you knew what that meant. “I’m on my way,” he said into the phone, already getting to his feet.

 

“Going to coordinate outfits with Boss Man?” you asked, only half joking.

 

“So astute,” said James, pocketing his phone. He brushed his thumb over the knuckles of your left hand. “By the way, if you’re seeking sartorial inspiration, you should return home.”

 

“Is that a riddle?” You knew you would only get an enigmatic smirk in reply, and you were not disappointed.

 

 

**_x. lord_ **

 

Francis brought a small, square gift box this time. “Thanks,” you said, accepting the package. “I’m sorry he has you running around doing these unimportant deliveries.”

 

Francis looked at you in confusion. “No, they’re… you’re important. To him.”

 

“Well, he should give me presents in person, then,” you said, then realized Francis might interpret your comment more seriously than you intended.

 

“Some foreign dignitaries are in town to see Mr. Fisk, and Mr. Wesley’s presence was required, to translate.” Francis hesitated. “He wasn’t sure how long the meeting would take. They might be finished earlier than expected. I’m heading back, I can – ”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Francis. I’ll text him.”  

 

Once alone, you unwrapped the box to find a breathtaking necklace graced with tiny delicate snowflakes, each one set with your birthstone.

 

_Thank you. Is this from the incompetent jeweler?_

 

_You don’t like it?_

 

_It’s lovely. Just wish you were here to help me put it on._

 

_You are perfectly capable of doing that without me._

 

You chuckled. True, if not the most romantic observation. _I’ll wear it to the event. But I’ll require your assistance in taking it off afterward._

 

_Understood._

 

 

**_xi. piper_ **

 

James had opened the car door for you and murmured a compliment into your ear as you got in, but now that he was sitting next to you you could see he was distracted, literally making a list on his tablet and checking it twice. After he dropped you off, you were prepared to not see him until the evening of the show, in three days’ time.

 

You considered attempting to seduce him in the car, but Francis had put on Christmas carols and James was so preoccupied he didn’t give any sign he noticed the sleigh bells jingling in stereo.

 

“Pipers, check,” he said, more to himself than to you.

 

“Everyone following your tune?” you ventured to ask.

 

“So far.” He paused pensively. “It really isn’t my tune, though. Mr. Fisk chooses it and the city falls into step. He is a Pied Piper of sorts, using the music of commerce to draw out all the rats.”

 

“The music of commerce? I like that. The siren song of greed.” A thought occurred to you. “Didn’t the Pied Piper kidnap children, in the story?”

 

“That came after, when the townspeople failed to pay him for his service. They didn’t keep their word, so he took their children.”

 

You shivered. “Have you been following the news? Those missing kids?”

 

“Hell’s Kitchen as Hamelin?” James mused, looking out the car window at the passing streets. “There are parallels. For one, they share an infestation of rats.”

 

 

**_xii. drummer_ **

 

A minor crisis arose when one of the drummers broke his arm in a tree trimming mishap, and his understudy was nowhere to be found. “I beg your pardon? Florida?” James said dangerously, exuding polite menace over the phone. “Did he not read the complete terms and conditions? He was not to leave the state until after the date of the performance. The event is now one performer short, and if you don’t want to be short a contract you will find a replacement.”

 

You were not overly worried, because you knew James would remedy the situation. While he paced and persuaded and pressured, you waded into the sea of arriving guests and located your boyfriend’s boss. You exchanged the season’s greetings, Fisk with reserve and Vanessa with warmth, and then Fisk asked, “Where’s Wesley?”

 

“Just dealing with some last minute details,” you said lightly. “Making sure everything goes smoothly tonight.”

 

“It will.” Vanessa touched your arm. “I cannot wait to see the swans! Have you seen them?”

 

“No, I haven’t really seen anything,” you admitted. “James has the whole thing under wraps. I’ve barely seen _him_ lately.”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Fisk. “This project has kept him from you.”

 

“Oh, no,” you reassured him. “That’s not what I meant. I understand the demands of his work–”

 

“Wilson’s demands,” Vanessa interjected with a smile.

 

“After tonight, I will... demand Wesley take a proper vacation,” Fisk said, looking mildly contrite. “He has earned it.”

 

When you returned to where you left James, he was concluding a call. “Thank you, Anatoly. I look forward to seeing your brother’s musical talents.”

 

You closed the distance between you, grabbing his tie (which you were pleased to see matched the colour of the gems around your neck) and tugging his mouth to yours. His eyebrows rose, but he yielded to the kiss. When he pulled away, buttoning his jacket, he regarded you with perplexity. “Are you under the influence of mistletoe?”

 

“Perhaps,” you said coyly. “Everything good to go?”

 

“I had to call in a favour, but we have a drummer. An unlikely candidate.”

 

“The show must go on!” you said brightly. James looked pained.

 

And what a show it was! A renowned singer with a classical background regaled the audience with carols, accompanied by a full orchestra. The performance culminated in an epic rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” where each verse was punctuated with live animals and costumed handlers. Children heeded their choreographed cues, the interpretive dance symbolizing cow-milking was less awkward than expected, and the Russian drummer was quite proficient at keeping tempo despite his murderous expression beneath the reindeer hat they forced him to don.

 

After an unrehearsed drum solo closed the evening’s entertainment and the audience erupted with applause, Fisk ascended the stage to make a short speech and present an oversized cheque. A succession of various other speakers went up to deliver remarks before the mingling portion of the festivities. You made your way to where James was standing, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture signifying to you that the stress of the evening was ebbing out of him.

 

“The true cost of Christmas is only this high because we measured the song by the cumulative number of gifts,” he said conversationally.

 

“A very open-handed true love,” you agreed. “But I’m glad you didn’t get me all those birds.”

 

In response, he shifted so that you were next to each other, his arm grazing yours. You saw your chance and took his hand, lacing your fingers with his. He squeezed, and you squeezed back. “Are you going to let me hold your hand in public?” you teased. “Feeling unwell?”

 

“I haven’t contracted avian flu, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

You leaned against him. “That’s not funny.”

 

“Weren’t you the one who thought this whole endeavour would be great fun?”

 

“Yes, until I realized twelve days of Christmas meant you would be busy for  exponentially longer. But Boss Man knows you’ve earned a vacation. He said so earlier.”

 

James nodded, mouth curling into a small, pleased smile. “Have you given more thought to possible destinations?”

 

“I made a list. I know how fond you are of those.”

 

“Just a fraction more fond than I am of you, darling. We’ll continue this discussion later tonight.” He let go of your hand, bending to brush his lips against your hair. Your pulse went into a percussive state. “After we get you out of that... necklace.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Christmas Price Index is a real thing! You can learn more about it here: https://www.pncchristmaspriceindex.com/cpi/#about


End file.
